Some Mill-thoughts of Charlie Poole
bret h. hart 2001

to the rhythm of the bobbin and the snapping of the yarn
in my head, I'm pickin' banjo with some friends behind the barn
the machines are crowded 'round me like the grain around a stalk
my feet are numb as dead men's but I'm fixin' for a walk

to the rhythm of the bobbin and the whistlin' of the steam
I'm far from Spray and Leaksville on the wings of my dream
my wife's brother has a fiddle and I just know that boy can play
got a neighbor with a flattop box and a map that knows the way

William Byrd, he never knew, and Guv'nor Morehead couldn't say
but the rhythm of the bobbin surely takes your soul away...
I'm thinkin' 'bout that wax-paper sandwich in my pocket,
this Reidsville tobacco, and her picture in this locket...

the rhythm of the bobbin and the ache in my back
has me thinkin' about the company team and when I'll be at bat
the uniforms have stripes and there's fine ladies in the stands
and when the game is over a bottle changes hands

when I get some breathin' room, I'll turn my life around
I won't be nobody's boy I won't let my deal go down
Posey, me, and that strummer's gonna leave this heat behind
'stead of sweat drippin' off our brow clear water's what we'll find

the rhythm of the bobbin and the humming of this mill
my heart taps out a beat like a banker's pennies in a till
I don't see no fame or fortune in this dust and dirt and pain
my feet are numb as dead men's...
got them walkin' blues again... them walkin' blues ⦠them walkin' blues again

I don't know where I'm goin', but I know for sure I will
end up underneath some headstone on some outta town hill
'til my liver turns to wood and I'm called up to my Lord
I'll thank you for another pull on that ol' drinkin' gourd (you got there in your hand)
that ol' drinkin' gourd...



William Byrd, he never knew, and Guv'nor Morehead couldn't say
but the rhythm of the bobbin surely takes your soul away...
I'm thinkin' 'bout that wax-paper sandwich in my pocket,
this Reidsville tobacco, and her picture in this locket...

William Byrd, he never knew, and Guv'nor Morehead couldn't say.

the machines are crowded 'round me
like the grain around a stalk
my feet are numb as dead men's
but I'm fixin for a walk

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